Not A Holmes
by Burnt Hamster
Summary: Tragedy within the Watson household sees young John moving in with the Holmes family.


"Sherlock, you are snooping." The boy jumped at the sound of his brother behind him. Mycroft had a great gift for stealth for someone as bulky as a bear.

"I'm not snooping. I'm observing."

"If you were simply observing, my dear brother, there would be no need for your ear to be pressed to the door." Sherlock's brow knit together his hand reaching up to unconsciously smooth back his tangled hair.

"I'm gathering evidence." He said finally and Mycroft let out a bark of laughter.

"By snooping."

"It's not snooping if the information gathered will be used for good."

"And what good have you intended for what Father and Mother are speaking?"

Sherlock shrugged his small shoulders. "I don't know yet."

"I see. What if the information supplied serves no purpose? What good would your evidence be then? It wouldn't be evidence at all as it pertains to nothing and you would have succeeded in nothing but in the act of . . ." Mycroft paused for dramatic effect. The thirteen-year-old bent until he was eye level with the six year old. ". . . snooping. Though I must confess you are quiet good at it."

Sherlock pouted at the smiling face of his brother his steel eyes narrowed. Mycroft's hand came to rest affectionately on the mop of black hair.

"Put your lip back in place Sherlock. The look does not become you."

Sherlock considered his brother for a moment, deciding if he had forfeited his right to the information he'd gathered. Deciding that his hurt pride did not smother his need to tell his findings he blurted, "Mum was telling Father about-" Before he could finish a hesitant knocking came from the front door. The bedroom door opened and their mother smiled down at them as if she had known they were there the entire time. She smoothed their hair without missing a step as she made her way toward the maid who had risen to answer the door. She gently shooed her away to answer it herself. The boys' attention was peeked but before they could follow their mother their father entered a moment later.

"You two better go up to your rooms." He looked tired but he spoke gently. They obeyed without word. Mycroft walked up the stairs unfazed for he was sure he would know what was transpiring soon enough. Sherlock however hung his head dejectedly, dragging his feet as if he were walking to a prison cell. Upon reaching the top step Mycroft picked up the book he had abandoned to sneak up on his brother and continued reading quietly. Sherlock opened his door and then looked around him. He closed it with a deliberate bang and then dropped to the floor in the hall. Sliding across the hard wood floor on his belly until he reached the balcony of the stairs and could peek through at his mother bellow.

She was now standing with two blond boys, hair once bleached by the illusive English sun now grayed to reflect the overcast skies. One was older, maybe a year or two older than Mycroft. The other couldn't be much younger than Sherlock. He clung fiercely to the others hand his eyes big pools of blue.

"I'm sorry to impose Mrs. Holmes-" The older boy when he spoke had a young voice, despite the lines of age that seemed to gather at the edges of his determined brown eyes. He looked weary and his voice was tired. "I didn't know where else to go. No one would take him and I couldn't-"

"It's alright dear. It's no imposition." Her voice was kind and washed over the boys like a soothing balm. The younger one who had until now looked on the verge of crying relaxed slightly. Mrs. Holmes brushed away a stray tear abandoned on his round cheeks.

"Could I get you some tea, James?" The boy looked down at his younger brother and quickly shook his head.

"Thank you ma'am, but I should go." As he spoke he began to pry away the small hand where it had entangled in his fingers, only for it to cling to his sleeve instead.

"Come John, we talked about this . . ." The boy's chest heaved with a buildup of tears as he tried desperately to pull himself into his brother's arms. James broke free with a sold push. And John stood still at the shock, tears streaming unbidden down his cheeks. His hands having nowhere else to go balled together at his chest. James took a step back toward him and then stopped. He was never one for shows of affection but he wished now as he had never before to take his brother up and hug him desperately. He resisted this urge as he had always done and took a step back toward the door. "I'm sorry, John." He stood for a moment looking into the wide blue eyes before pulling his gaze away. "Thank you Mrs. Holmes." And with a grateful bow he ducked his head and left by the front door.

John stared after him, then dropped to his bottom on the floor as if his legs would no longer support him. Sherlock watched as his mother sat beside the boy. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and combed her fingers through his hair. He felt a pang of possessiveness at the familiar gesture but it was soon smothered by his curiosity. John's tears had stopped flowing and he wiped away their remains with a dirty sleeve, breath coming in hiccups.

Without looking up his mother called to him. "Sherlock, come." He obeyed. Not the least bit phased by her knowledge of his presence on the stairs. When he finally reached them the boy's hiccupping stopped. He looked shyly at him with wide curious eyes. Sherlock controlled his features, a trick he had learned last summer when a group of boys found the need to taunt him for his reaction on their walk to town. Now he schooled his expression to suppress his curiosity and instead projected disinterest. Mycroft was the master of this trick being the one to teach it to him. His mother smiled at his effort. She lifted John from where he was sitting, propping him up to stand before Sherlock. John was a good deal shorter than him he noticed absently but Sherlock had always been tall for his age though always too thin.

"John Watson meet Sherlock Holmes." She said between the two. "John will be staying with us now." Sherlock stared unabashedly over him. From his worn thin shoes, to his hands that nervously pulled at his jacket and to his face that kept ducking away, hair dropping to obscure his features. His blue eyes looked bright in contrast to his dim attire, he observed this in the moments when John was brave enough to lift them to meet Sherlock's. His mother's smile grew as her eyes went from one to the other. She said airily as if she were surprised by what she had seen between them, her voice reaching them like a premonition. "Look at you two now. You are going to be dear friends."


End file.
